I don't mean to keep forgetting about her
but sometimes I'm glad I do
not because she hurts me, though she does
not because she likes me, though she does
not because she can see me, see me through the bitter filth on the lenses of tinted glasses,
but because she can't see me
and I can't see her
we're new every time we talk,
rosebuds,
gentle rain dotting the velvet petals
it's like meeting for the first time every time,
and I'm not sure if I want that to change.
because though I want to know her and learn so much about her,
dance with her and let myself be shy,
let the rose slowly bloom,
it stays furled
like a sail in a storm
to keep it from blowing away.
am I the storm or am I the sail?
am I the rain or am I the canvas?
am I the puddles or am I the begging for sun?
one thing is for sure:
am I the reason we cannot connect
cowardice is what fuels me, not in terms of life but in living
I can make the noise but I refuse to let it echo back into my own ears
or to hear the cries of others.
they buy me at the store, pale pink and wrapped in plastic, the crinkling reminding them of someone they love(d)
and though I'm full of hope I'm not full of forgiveness
full of words that can't be said, full of dangerous, dangerous words
so
do I put others at risk when I unfurl?
if I bloom, do you only think about the thorns?
do you regret how I fall apart once you clip me from my home?
am I alone in the tangled bush?
tell me Andrea, are you the rose or the rain?
I know it's hard for us to talk but
I think we can start there.
